


The Knight and The Wren

by FallingFaintly, libraryv



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Rewrite, Canon Universe, Drama & Romance, F/M, Redemption, Villainy, swashbuckling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-25 03:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30082947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingFaintly/pseuds/FallingFaintly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: After taking steps to leave his painful past behind him, Athos has the opportunity to move forward.  Opportunity arrives in the form of a certain Comtesse, and Athos must face his fears, and more, allow himself to hope. The most challenging battle of all is with his own heart.
Relationships: Athos | Comte de la Fère & Ninon de Larroque
Comments: 19
Kudos: 17





	1. The Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After taking steps to leave his painful past behind him, Athos has the opportunity to move forward. Opportunity arrives in the form of a certain Comtesse, and Athos must face his fears, and more, allow himself to hope. The most challenging battle of all is with his own heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This tale is set after the events of series 2, episode 5.

They say that Paris does not sleep.

But in the unforgiving chill of early dawn, as fingers of pale violet and soft pink streaked across the sky, there was a dreamy, sluggish quality to the city’s pulse. 

Athos made his steady, quiet way along the cobblestones, hat pulled low, boot heels pacing towards his destination, his thoughts pulled relentlessly in the same direction; always and forever, towards his past.

It had been a week since he left his estates behind forever; discarded them, he hoped, into hands that would value them more than he did. He felt a pang of guilt over the fate of his sister-in-law. She had not deserved the difficulties of the life she had faced, unprotected against the vagaries of fortune. But a life of privilege was just that. Men must accept that it can disappear as soon as it appears, women must accept it too. 

Catherine’s hatred for Milady would drive her, just as his own anguish had driven him; anguish at having been compelled by his own unswerving commitment to law and justice to execute the woman to whom he had given his whole self. It had increased, impossibly, when he had discovered, in that very estate, in a manor house now scorched and crumbling, that he had not executed her. He had merely created, with his iron will, a monster he knew would one day be the death of him. A monster who only resembled the love of his life, now marked with a rope burn he almost felt scored around his own neck.

Athos raised an unconscious hand to the skin at his throat, pulling at his collar. He must not hang himself with memory. Milady, and his life with her, must be left behind. Whatever torments lingered from the past, the present day held enough to distract, and at the very least, he could assure himself that he would never again succumb to the folly of love.

He was content, if such a heavy feeling could be called contentment, to live the life of a soldier, pressing himself into the thrum of training and practice, of following orders and doing his duty, of upholding the law he had already as good as sold his soul for. There were compensations, of course. His brother Musketeers were as dear to him as any kin could be, and whatever torments still jabbed at him in the dark of night, when the drink no longer worked its oblivion, he knew his brothers would be there to smooth away the sharpened edges of memory. Porthos’ giant heart and warm humour, Aramis’ sly wit and untarnished patience, D’Artagnan’s unwavering enthusiasm and energy: these men made up the entirety of Athos’ world. 

So it was as he was strutting through the lingering wounds of the previous night’s dive to the bottom of the bottle, on his way to the garrison, his mood as light as it ever was, that Athos was wholly unprepared for the sight of the only other woman who had come close to knocking him away from his determined pursuit of solitude.

She was as lovely as he remembered. Her clear eyes, so perceptive and quick, took mere moments to absorb her surroundings as she stepped from the carriage into the street, and met his helpless gaze. The familiar blonde curls were arranged neatly, her attire less ostentatious than when she had been a woman of title and property, but her beauty was always allied in his memory with her wit and vivacity, and it was undimmed.

_Ninon._

His feet had stopped; his forward momentum had stilled. How many evenings had he attempted to drown all recollection of her in a bottle of wine? How many nights had he lain awake, giving in to memory, letting himself relive evocations of her words, her touch, her kiss, only to resolve anew to forget? How many times had his thoughts wandered, thinking of the life she had been condemned to lead?

The carriage driver had jumped down, asking her a question, and she moved to answer. Athos immediately turned on his heel and reversed direction away from this strange twist of fate. There was more than one route to the garrison.

As he walked determinedly on, he could hear her words from a year ago, echoing forward and cutting a clear line through his memory.

_“I could have loved a man like you.”_

And the words he had never uttered back; ones that he had held on his tongue and wondered, over and over again, if circumstance had differed, if he had let go of reserve and allowed himself to voice his feelings, whether he would ever have spoken them aloud:

“And I, you.”

*****

Sunbeams streamed through the high arched windows, casting the milling members of Court in appropriately golden light. The hum of conversation and laughter permeated the air as royalty and nobles traded gossip and secrets. A young woman made a pretty, clever witticism, and her group of admirers burst into eager, competitive laughter.

In the far corner of the room stood Athos, the sky-blue cape of his musketeer uniform draped gracefully over one shoulder, the brim of his soldier’s hat markedly low, as if he hoped it would physically shield him from potential conversation.

He may no longer bear the title of Comte, but the Musketeers protected the court on the King’s command, and Treville often asked Athos. He could see the logic behind the decision, given his past and how he fit the role, but it was not a pleasant way for him to spend the afternoon.

There was, of course, another reason that Athos was tasked with palace duty; Milady had recently managed to enchant the King. Louis was dangerously thrilled to be under her spell, and Athos’ particular insight into her manipulative power was valuable, though her presence at Court was something he could barely tolerate. 

She was in attendance this very evening; her dark head moving smoothly from group to group, her coy laugh filtering into the air and grating against every nerve he had.

At least Porthos was standing to his right, and Athos gave his brother a small smile, Porthos’ solidity a symbol of reassuring impertubility.

The doors opened, a lady’s name announced, and a minor flurry of excitement buzzed through the room at the new arrival, who was immediately swallowed by a curious knot of people. Athos looked over and caught a glimpse of shining hair and a graceful turn of shoulders, his pulse catching suddenly.

It was Ninon, standing in grey silk, her clever, knowing eyes assessing the room at large. 

Athos swallowed and rolled his shoulders, and Porthos looked over.

“Feelin’ all right? Today’s stint feels even longer, doesn’ it?”

Athos wasn’t listening, because Ninon had looked up and found him. Their eyes met, and the undertone of chatter died away as memories crowded him, the room blurring at its edges.

Ninon held his gaze for a few agonizing, exquisite moments, then looked away, and the world rushed back in at him, Porthos’ previously warbled voice resolving into clear concern.

“-I’m tellin’ you, you don’ look right, Athos.”

“I am in perfect health,” he snapped, and Porthos squinted at him with suspicion, but dropped the subject as he too, caught sight of her.

Athos’ heart was threatening to beat out of his chest as he watched Ninon’s blonde head move through the crowded room. 

Towards him. 

He gave no outward indication of his riotous emotions; allowed himself no release other than to grip the pommel of his sword at his side with an iron hold. This was the woman he had come the closest to caring for since Anne, but had tethered to the part of his heart he kept hidden, even from himself.

Athos breathed evenly through his nose as he watched her come closer, fighting against both the urge to walk over to her and pull her to him, and turn the other direction and walk straight to the nearest bottle of wine. 

“Mademoiselle!” A harsh voice rang out, and a man stepped forward, blocking Ninon’s path. Athos could see the side of the man’s face sneering as he gave her a mocking bow. 

“Or should I say, _Comtesse de Larroque._ ”

Murmured shock traveled through the room, which had quieted. 

Ninon inclined her head with regal smoothness. 

“You are mistaken, monsieur.”

The man continued. 

“I am not. You are the Comtesse de Larroque, the rebellious woman who spouted devilry and lies.” He pointed a stubby finger at her. “And you were almost burned at the stake for it.”

A flare of colour appeared in Ninon’s cheeks, but she lifted her chin. Athos’s heart recognized the familiar gesture, constricting in his throat. 

He took a step forward as she spoke.

“I do not believe that a woman learning independence is devilry. In fact, I believe it to be a right.”

The man spat at her feet, and a few shocked gasps were flung into the silence.

“Pity you didn’t burn, mademoiselle. There are men at this Court who have not forgotten your wickedness,” he leered at her. “Nor have we forgotten that Richeleu himself banned you from showing your face.”

He moved towards her, and although Ninon held her ground, there was the barest flinch as the man reached out to grab her arm.

He didn’t manage it: Athos had stepped smoothly in between them. 

"You will not touch the lady without her consent, monsieur.” Athos’ blue eyes were frozen ice. 

“ _Lady_ ,” laughed the man, looking at the faces surrounding them, seeking support. He found none; the tone had shifted. Musketeers were respected as representatives of the King and Queen. Athos’ reputation as Treville’s second-in-command was common knowledge, as was his former connection with the world of the titled and privileged.

“This woman is here with the approval of the King and Queen,” stated Athos, his soft voice gaining volume as he spoke the words above the crowd. Porthos had come to stand slightly behind him, lending a physical affirmative, should there be any doubt.

The man looked around again, and shrunk from underneath Athos’ glare. He turned and strode to a corner, and with a few interested glances at Ninon, the rest of the group broke apart, and King Louis VIII’s court was once again a hum of idle gossip, most of it directed at the beautiful newcomer, and the aloof, handsome musketeer who had intervened on her behalf.

Athos and Ninon were left staring at each other. 

He bowed, his eyes never leaving hers. 

“Comtesse.”

She gave a wry smile. 

“You know as well as anyone that I can no longer answer to that designation, Monsieur Comte de la Fere,” she reminded him, intoning the title with the merest hint of gentle mockery.

“Any more than I may continue to claim the title of Comte,” Athos told her.

Her eyebrows climbed high, surprised.

“I relinquished both the name and the land connected with its history,” he continued, and it suddenly occurred to him that they stood before each other more as equals than ever.

She softened her eyes in response. Perhaps she was having the same thought. “So the Musketeer I knew remains at Court, though he is more knight than lord.” A smile hovered at the corners of her mouth. “You are ever the contradiction, Athos.” 

There was too much fondness in her eyes, too much admiration. He looked down, gathered himself, and looked back up. Her smile was fully there, now, as radiant and playful as he remembered.

”That was not a complaint,” she said, moving a little closer. Her voice was low and intimate, even in the public setting. “You fascinate me, still.” She tilted her head, and seemed to decide to shift direction. “You came to my rescue, just now, though I imagine you do not do that for every woman at Court.”

“You imagine correctly,” he replied, noticing her tone move from sultry to playful again. She was mercurial in the way she continually wrong footed him.

“You do realise I had the situation in hand,” she told him, gesturing to her previous inquisitor.

“Yes, that man looked very subdued,” Athos returned, his expression neutral, but his voice full of playful derision.

“If you had allowed me time, I could have turned the tide,” Ninon was undeterred. Athos admired both her defiance and her confidence in reason, of course, but mostly, he was delighted to be sparring with her, despite his better judgement.

“If I had allowed you more time, that man would have surely done you some ill. I prevented the situation from escalating,” he returned smoothly, his eyes connecting intently with hers as he moved fractionally towards her.

“Thereby proving their point that a woman must always be rescued,” she parried.

They were standing close now, close enough that Athos could see the flecks of silver in her eyes. Ninon set her shoulders, and Athos noticed the brooch that hung at her breast, the symbol of the hope and freedom that she clearly still cherished. A wren.

“I have no need for heroics,” she affirmed.

Athos gave a brief nod. He found that he was breathing a little quicker than normal.

“As you wish, Ninon,” he replied, conceding not because he wanted to, or had nothing else to say, but because he knew that the exchange was poised to escalate and he had no control over how far. The last time she had been this close to him had been at their tender parting, and the memory of her kiss was seared on his lips. Lips that were currently, dangerously close to hers.

Ninon blinked and glanced around the room; she seemed to remember where they were. She dipped elegantly at the knees, her expression unreadable, then she turned from him and walked from the room. 

Athos stood, his right hand clenched, his head swimming, his senses filled with Ninon. He was shocked from the collision of past and present, and of all they had shared together. And lost.

She didn’t look back.


	2. The Bars

It was a warm spring. The city was trapped in a heat wave; the next few weeks brought sunshine and cloudless blue skies. It made the garrison a pleasant, festal setting, and Athos was grateful for the extra practice with the blade that the good weather afforded him. 

The other thing that the warmer season had brought was higher spirits among the men, and while Athos normally found his brothers’ jocular rumour-mongering at the breakfast table a form of reliable background comfort, today he found himself at the receiving end of an unpleasant new development: the current gossip surrounded _him_.

His defense of Ninon in front of the eyes of most of Louis’ Court had not gone unnoticed, and Paris society was buzzing with it. Porthos and d’Artagnan had regular admirers who followed their musketeering antics with starry eyes, and Aramis was certainly no stranger to the steady stream of adoration that tumbled in his direction, but Athos had never before been the main target. 

And there was definitely some teasing. 

“I overheard one lady say to her friend that you had the most soulful face she’d ever seen,” declared Porthos, taking another bite of bread, eyes twinkling. 

Athos studiously concentrated on his food. 

“Just last night, I had a lovely young woman stop me in the street and ask me for an introduction to my friend with ‘the expressive blue eyes,’” grinned d’Artagnan. 

Athos rolled said eyes, then pulled his hat down lower, effectively shadowing them, and bent over his plate.

“Really?” chimed Aramis. “All I’ve heard about is how feather soft his hair must surely be.”

“I’ve heard ‘intense’ tossed about.”

“Intriguing.”

“Inscrutable.”

“Now we're just listing words that start with the letter “I.”

“You spend an hour with Athos and tell me he’s not inscrutable.”

“Enigmatic.”

“Dashing.”

“No no, they’ve got their musketeers tangled, that last one is me,” stated Aramis, completing the circle of teasing, and he, Porthos and d’Artagnan burst out laughing.

“Are you quite finished?” bit out Athos, who had slouched so low onto the table that he was practically level with it. 

“Ah, come on, Athos, why aren’ you gettin’ in the spirit of things?” Porthos leaned over and gave him a friendly slug on the shoulder.

Athos lifted his head, took a regal sip of his drink, and remained silent.

“There are some lingering feelings for a certain former Comtesse, I think,” mused Aramis with a sly smile.

“You are mistaken,” replied Athos, in a tone that brooked no argument.

His friends exchanged an amused look. Athos stood, ignoring them, and pulled his sword from its scabbard. 

“Well?” he asked d’Artagnan brusquely. “Are we to practice, or are we to waste time?”

D'Artagnan grinned, but got up and followed Athos to the centre courtyard.

They circled each other, reading body language. 

“I heard she is in Paris for the season,” said d’Artagnan, without preamble, and as Athos took a costly second to register the information, d'Artagnan pounced. 

Athos deflected.

Barely. 

“Not only that,” d’Artagnan continued, and there was no point in trying to pretend they didn’t both know who he was talking about, as their swords flashed forward like quicksilver, “but rumour has it that she was at Madame Jarry’s salon last night.”

Athos’ reply was to attack with a savage upper cut, which d’Artagnan blocked with frustrating ease. 

They circled again, breathing harder now, looking into each other’s eyes for a hint of the next move.

“Aramis was also there,” observed d’Artagnan, conversationally. He cross-stepped, and Athos followed the movement. He had begun to sweat, linen shirt slightly unbuttoned and sticking to his chest in the heat. He tossed off his hat with one hand, raking a hand through his hair, his gaze not leaving d’Artagnan, who raised his eyebrows. 

“And according to him, the lovely Ninon was asking after the health of a certain musketeer.”

Athos switched his lead and back feet, executing a bit of skilled footwork that d’Artagnan couldn’t match. He had gained some ground, and lifted his lips in a half-smile. 

“There are many musketeers.”

“Only one that has, and I believe I’m quoting here, ‘a melancholic aspect to his features,’” finished d’Artagnan triumphantly, and Athos’ sword slipped a fraction. 

Enough that d’Artagnan, rapid as ever, had his own blade at Athos’ throat in a blur. The younger musketeer tilted his head, grinning. 

“I can see why you were so eager to practice. You clearly need it.”

Athos fixed his brother with a defiant glare. 

D’Artagnan’s teasing expression eased, and he relented. 

“Athos. Brother. For what it’s worth, I think Ninon is a good match for you. I thought, before, that she was a chance for you to-”

“There will be no more chances for me,” returned Athos, and whipped his sword down through the air. 

“Again.”

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to argue, but Athos gave him a conclusive nod, signalling the end of the matter, and their swords met, the rest of the morning practice nothing but the uncomplicated flash of blades, sunlight glinting off the steel.

*****

“So the viper remains in the nest,” summarised Treville. “At least for now.”

He sat back in his chair, studying the four musketeers standing across from him. 

“The King is utterly infatuated with Milady,” confirmed Athos, bitterly. 

“The Queen, less so. Her Majesty does not deserve this embarrassment,” put in Aramis, and Athos shot him a look. Aramis gave a small, innocent shrug.

Treville’s brows creased as he caught the silent exchange between the two friends, but he said nothing. He sighed. 

“I appreciate your vigilance on this matter, Athos, and I’m afraid I must ask you to return to the palace once more.” He nodded at the others. “I would like all four of you there, actually.”

He crossed his arms. 

“No doubt you have heard of the new arrival at Court; you may remember her as Comtesse Ninon de Larroque.”

Athos’ three brothers carefully avoided looking at him.

Treville continued. 

“I even heard a tale about one of my musketeers coming to her aid, the other day.” He glanced towards Athos, whose stony expression betrayed nothing. 

“Her school has become quite a little success, and so the former Comtesse is back in Paris with a student of hers, an operatic protegee, who is to give a private concert at the Louvre this evening.”

Treville gave them all a piercing look.

“I am more than concerned about Milady’s influence over the King, but also Rochefort, who seems to have managed to ally himself with not only Louis, but Anne as well. Your presence at the concert this evening will be a show of support.”

“An’ a reminder of our strength,” ventured Porthos, and Treville gave him a nod. 

“I am expecting your eyes and ears to be everywhere.” 

His sharp gaze lingered on Athos and Aramis. “And for you to remain undistracted.”

“I can sneak away to ask Constance to see if she’s noticed anything,” said d’Artagnan eagerly, and Treville pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I did _just_ order you to remain undistracted, did I not?” he asked tiredly. “You _did_ hear me?”

“Yes,” agreed d’Artagnan a tad sulkily, as Porthos slapped him bracingly on the shoulder. Treville sat up again.

“Be vigilant. I trust Rochefort about as far as I could throw him. This concert tonight is an opportunity to learn what you can.”

He stood. 

“Dismissed!”


End file.
